She received the compliment with her low, soft laugh. "I am—years younger," she said.

He gave her a sharp look. "You are happy here? Not sorry you came?"

"Oh, not in the least sorry," said Juliet.

He nodded. "That's all right. You've done Vera a lot of good. She's getting almost docile. But as soon as this flower-show business is over, I want you to use all your influence to get her away. We'll go North and see if we can get a little strength into her." Again he looked at her shrewdly. "You won't mind coming too?"

"But of course not," said Juliet. "I shall love it."

He was on his way out of the room, but a sudden thought seemed to strike him and he lingered. "Shall I make Green come to the flower-show with us?" he asked.

"I shouldn't," said Juliet quietly. "He probably wouldn't have time, and certainly Mrs. Fielding wouldn't want him."

He frowned. "Would you like him?" he asked abruptly.

"I?" She met his look with a baffling smile. "Oh, don't ask him on my account! I am quite happy without a cavalier in attendance."

And Fielding went out, looking dissatisfied. But when the day arrived and they were on the point of departure he surprised them both by the sudden announcement that Green was to be picked up at the gates. It was a Saturday afternoon, and for once he was at liberty.

"Oh, really, Edward!" Mrs. Fielding protested. "Now you've spoilt everything!"

"On the contrary," smiled the squire. "I have merely completed the party."

"I'm sure Miss Moore doesn't want him!" she declared petulantly.

"I am afraid Miss Moore will have to put up with him nevertheless," said Fielding, unperturbed. "For he is coming."

"You always do your best to spoil my pleasure," Vera flung at him.

Juliet saw the squire's mouth take an ominous downward curve, but to her relief he kept his temper in check. He was driving the car himself which was an open one. Somewhat grimly he turned to Juliet. "I hope you have no objection to sharing the back-seat with Mr. Green?"

She felt her pulses give a swift leap at the question, but with a hasty effort she kept down her rising colour. "Of course not!" she said.

He gave her a brief smile of approval. "Then you will sit in front with me, Vera. That is settled. Let us have no more argument!"

"It's too bad!" Vera declared stormily on the verge of indignant tears.

"My dear," he said, "don't be silly! Has it never occurred to you that I may like to have my wife to myself occasionally?"

It evidently had not, for Vera gave him a look of sheer amazement and yielded the point as if she had no breath left for further discussion.

He settled her in her place, and tucked the rug around her with more than usual care. As he finished, she leaned forward and touched his shoulder with a slightly uncertain smile.

He glanced up. "All right?"

"Quite, thank you," she said.

And Juliet in the back-seat drew a breath of relief. The squire was becoming quite an adept at the game.

They shot down the avenue at a speed that brought them very rapidly in sight of the gates. A figure was waiting there, and again Juliet was conscious of the hard beating of her heart. Then she knew that the car was stopping, and looked forth with an impersonal smile of welcome.

He came forward, greeted the squire and Mrs. Fielding, and in a moment was getting in beside her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Moore!" he said.

She gave him her hand and felt his fingers close with a spring-like strength upon it, while his eyes laughed into hers. Then the car was in motion again, and he dropped into the seat.

"By Jove, this is a treat!" he said. "I had the greatest difficulty in the world to get away, made Ashcott take my place. It isn't a very important match, and he's a better bowler than I am anyway."

"Do you want any rug?" she said, still battling to keep back the overwhelming flush of gladness from her face.

He accepted her offer at once, and in a moment his hand had caught and imprisoned hers beneath its shelter.

She made a sharp movement to free herself, and the blush she had so valiantly resisted flamed over face and neck as she felt his hold tighten as sharply, and heard him laugh at her impotence. But he went on talking as though nothing had happened, considerately covering her agitation, and to her relief neither Fielding nor his wife looked round till it had subsided.

It was barely half-an-hour's run to Burchester Park which was thrown open to the public for the great occasion. The Castle also was open on that day, and visitors thronged thither from every quarter.

A long procession of conveyances stood outside the great iron gates of the Park, but the squire, owing to an acquaintanceship with Lord Saltash's bailiff, held a permit that enabled him to drive in. They went up the long avenue of firs that led to the great stone building, but ere they reached it the strains of a band told them that the flower-show was taking place in an open space on their right close to the entrance to the terraced gardens which occupied the southern slope in front of the house.

Fielding ran the car into a deep patch of shade beside the road, and stopped. "We had better get out here," he said.

Juliet's hand slipped free. Dick threw her a smile and jumped out.

"Will the car be all right?" he said, as he turned to help her down.

"Oh, right enough," the squire said. "There is no traffic along here."

"I am hoping to go into the house," said Vera. "But I suppose it will be crammed with people."

"We'll do the flower-show first anyhow," said Fielding.

He led the way with her, and it seemed quite natural to Juliet that Green should fall in beside her. It was a cloudless day, and she had an almost childish feeling of delight in its splendour. She was determined to enjoy herself to the utmost.

They entered the first sweltering tent and in the throng she felt again the touch of Dick's hand at he came behind. "We mustn't lose each other," he said, with a laugh.

The midsummer madness was upon her, and, without looking at him she squeezed the fingers that gripped her arm.

In a moment his voice spoke in her ear. "Look here! Let's get away! Let's get lost! It's the easiest thing in the world. We can't all hang together in this crowd."

This was quite evident. The great marquee was crammed with people, and already Fielding was piloting his wife to the opening at the other end.

"We must just look round," murmured Juliet, "for decency's sake."

"All right, my dear, look!" he said. "And when you've quite finished we'll go out by the way we came and explore the gardens."

She threw him a glance that expressed acquiescence and a certain mead of amused appreciation. For somehow Dick Green in his blue serge and straw hat managed to look smarter if less immaculate than any of the white-waistcoated band of local magnates around them. So—for decency's sake—she prowled round the tent with Dick at her shoulder, admiring everything she saw and forgetting as soon as she had admired. She told herself that it was a day of such supreme happiness as could not come twice in any lifetime, and because of it she lingered, refusing to hasten the moment for which Dick had made provision.

"Haven't you had enough of it?" he said, at last.

And she answered him with a quivering laugh. "No, not nearly. I'm spinning out every single second."

"Ah, but they won't wait," he said. "Come! I think we're safely lost now. Let us go!"

She turned obediently from a glorious spread of gloxinias, and he made a way for her through the buzzing crowd to the entrance. When Dick spoke with the voice of authority, it was her pleasure to submit.

She felt her pulses tingle as she followed him, to be alone with him again, to feel herself encompassed by the fiery magic of his love, to yield throbbing surrender to the mastery that would not be denied. Yet when he turned to her outside in the hot sunshine with the blaring band close at hand she almost shrank away, she almost voiced a pretext for continuing their unprofitable wandering through the stifling tents. For, strangely, though he smiled at her, there was about him in that moment a quality that went near to scaring her. Something untamed, something indomitable, looked out at her from his glittering eyes. It was almost like a challenge, as if he dared her to dispute his right.

"That's better," he said, drawing a deep breath. "Now we can get away."

"We shan't get away from the people," she said.

He threw a rapid glance around. "Yes, we shall—with any luck. Come along! I know the way. There's a little landing-stage place down by the lake. We'll go there. There may even be a boat handy—if the gods are kind."

The gods were kind. They skirted the terraced gardens, which were not open to the public, and plunged down a winding walk through a shrubbery that led somewhat sharply downwards, away from the noise and the crush into cool green depths of woodland through which at last there shone up at them the gleam of water.

Juliet was panting when at length her guide paused. "My darling, what a shame!" he said. "But hang on to me! There are some steps round the corner, and they may be slippery. We'll soon be down now, and there's not a soul anywhere. Look! There's a fairy barque waiting for us!"

She caught sight of a white skiff, lying in the water close to the bank. As he had predicted, the final descent was a decided scramble, but he held her up until the mossy bank was reached; and would have held her longer, but with a little breathless laugh she released herself.

"My shoes are ruined," she remarked.

As they were of light grey suede, and the precipitous path they had travelled was a mixture of clay and limestone the ruin was palpable and very thorough. Dick surveyed them with compunction.

"I say, they're wet through! You must take them off at once. Get into the boat!"

"No, no!" She laughed again with more assurance. "I am not going to take them off. We couldn't dry them if I did, and I should never get them on again. Do you think we ought to get into the boat? Suppose the owner came along?"

"The owner? Lord Saltash, do you mean?" He scoffed at the idea. "Do you really imagine he would come within a hundred leagues of the place on such a day as this. No, he is probably many salt miles away in that ocean-going yacht of his. Lucky dog!"

"Oh, do you envy him?" she said.

He gave her a shrewd glance. "Not in the least. He is welcome to his yacht—and his Lady Jo—and all that is his."

"Dick!" She made a swift gesture of repudiation. "Please don't repeat that—scandal—again!"

He raised his brows with a faintly ironical smile. "Are you still giving her the benefit of the doubt?" he said. "I imagine no one else does."

The colour went out of her face. She stood quite motionless, looking not at him but at a whirl of dancing gnats on the gold-flecked water beyond him.

"She went to Paris," she said, in the tone of one asserting a fact that no one could dispute.

"So did he," said Green. "The yacht went round to Bordeaux to pick him up afterwards. I understand that he was not alone."

She turned on him in sudden anger. "Why do you repeat this horrible gossip? Where do you hear it?"

He held out his hand to her. "Juliet, I repeat it, because I want you to know—you have got to know—that she is unworthy of your friendship, and—you shall never touch pitch with my consent. I have heard it from various sources,—from Ashcott, from the agent here, Bishop, and others. My dear, you have always known her for a heartless flirt. You broke with her because she jilted the man she was about to marry. Now that she has gone to another man, surely you have done with her!"

He spoke without anger, but with a force and authority that carried far more weight. Juliet's indignation passed. But she did not touch the outstretched hand, and in a moment he bent and took hers.

"Now I've made you furious," he said.

She looked at him somewhat piteously, assaying a smile with the lips that trembled. "No, I am not furious. Only—when you talk like that you make me—rather uneasy. You see, Lady Jo and I have always been—birds of a feather."

"Don't," he said, and suddenly gripped her hand so that she gasped with pain. "Oh, did I hurt you, sweetheart? Forgive me. But I can't have you talk like that—couple yourself with that woman whose main amusement for years has been to break as many hearts as she could capture. Forget her, darling! Promise me you will! Come! We're not going to let her spoil this perfect day."

He was drawing her to him, but she sought to resist him, and even when his arms were close about her she did not wholly yield. He held her to him, but he did not press for a full surrender.

And—perhaps because of his forbearance—she presently lifted her face to his and clung to him with all her quivering strength. "Just for to-day, Dick!" she whispered tremulously. "Just for to-day!"

Their lips met upon the words. And, "For ever and ever!" he made passionate answer, as he held her to his heart.



CHAPTER II

SALTASH

The sunshine was no less bright or the day less full of summer warmth when they floated out upon the lake a little later. But Juliet's mood had changed. She leaned back on Dick's coat in the stern of the boat, drifting her fingers through the rippling water with a thoughtful face. Once or twice she only nodded when Dick spoke to her, and he, bending to his sculls, soon fell silent, content to watch her while the golden minutes passed.

The lake was long and narrow, surrounded by woodland trees with coloured water-lilies floating here and there upon its surface—a fairy spot, mysterious, green as emerald. The music of the band sounded distant here, almost like the echoes of another world. They reached the middle of the lake, and Dick suffered his sculls to rest upon the water, sending feathery splashes from their tips that spread in widening circles all around them.

As if in answer to an unspoken word, Juliet's eyes came up to his. She faintly smiled. "Have you brought that woodland pipe of yours?" she asked.

He smiled back at her. "No, I am keeping that for another occasion."

She lifted her straight brows interrogatively, without speaking.

He answered her still smiling, but with that in his voice that brought the warm colour to her face. "For the day when we go away, together, sweetheart, and don't come back."

Her eyes sank before his, but in a moment or two she lifted them again, meeting his look with something of an effort. "I wonder, Dick," she said slowly, "I wonder if we ever shall."

He leaned towards her. "Are you daring me to run away with you?"

She shook her head. "I should probably turn into something very hideous if you did, and that would be—rather terrible for both of us."

"That's a parable, is it?" He was still looking at her keenly, earnestly.

She made a little gesture of remonstrance, as if his regard were too much for her. "You can take it as you please. But as I have no intention of running away with you, perhaps it is beside the point."

He laughed with a hint of mastery. "Our intentions on that subject may not be the same. I'll back mine against yours any day."

She smiled at his words though her colour mounted higher. After a moment she sat up, and laid a hand upon his knee. "Dick, you're getting too managing—much. I suppose it's the schoolmaster part of you. I daresay you find it gets you the upper hand with a good many, but—it won't with me."

His hand was on hers in an instant, she thrilled to the electricity of his touch. "No—no!" he said. "That's just the soul of me, darling, leaping all the obstacles to reach and hold you. You're not going to tell me you have no use for that?"

"But you promised to be patient," she said.

"Well, I will be. I am. Don't look so serious! What have I done?"

His eyes challenged her to laughter, and she laughed, though somewhat uncertainly. "Nothing—yet, Dick. But—I don't feel at all sure of you to-day. You make me think of a faun of the woods. I haven't the least idea what you will do next."

"What a mercy I've got you safe in the boat!" he said. "I didn't know you were so shy. What shall I do to reassure you?"

His hand moved up her wrist with the words, softly pushing up the lacy sleeve, till it found the bend of the elbow, when he stooped and kissed the delicate blue veins, closely with lips that lingered.

Then, his head still bent low, very tenderly he spoke. "Don't be afraid of my love, sweetheart! Let it be your—defence!"

She was sitting very still in his hold save that every fibre of her throbbed at the touch of his lips. But in a moment she moved, touched his shoulder, his neck, with fingers that trembled, finally smoothed the close black hair.

"Why did you make me love you?" she said, and uttered a sharp sigh that caught her unawares.

He laughed as he raised his head. "Poor darling! You didn't want to, did you? Hard lines! I believe it's upset all your plans for the future."

"It has," she said. "At least—it threatens to!"

"What a shame!" He spoke commiseratingly. "And what were your plans—if it isn't impertinent of me to ask?"

She smiled faintly. "Well, marriage certainly wasn't one of them. And I'm not sure that it is now. I feel like the girl in Marionettes—Cynthia Paramount—who said she didn't think any women ought to marry until she had been engaged at least six times."

"That little beast!" Dick sat up suddenly and returned to his sculls. "Juliet, why did you read that book? I told you not to."

Her smile deepened though her eyes were grave. She clasped her fingers about her knees. "My dear Dick, that's why. It didn't hurt me like The Valley of Dry Bones. In fact I was feeling so nice and superior when I read it that I rather enjoyed it."

Dick sent the boat through the water with a long stroke. His face was stern. After a moment Juliet looked at him. "Are you cross with me because I read it, Dick?"

His face softened instantly. "With you! What an idea!"

"With the man who wrote it then?" she suggested. "He exasperates me intensely. He has such a maddeningly clear vision, and he is so inevitably right."

"And yet you persist in reading him!" Dick's voice had a faintly mocking note.

"And yet I persist in reading him. You see, I am a woman, Dick. I haven't your lordly faculty for ignoring the people I most dislike. I detest Dene Strange, but I can't overlook him. No one can. I think his character studies are quite marvellous. That girl and her endless flirtations, and then—when the real thing comes to her at last—that unspeakable man of iron refusing to take her because she had jilted another man, ruining both their lives for the sake of his own rigid code! He didn't deserve her in any case. She was too good for him with all her faults." Juliet paused, studying her lover's face attentively. "I hope you're not that sort of man, Dick," she said.

He met her eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"Because there's a high-priestly expression about your mouth that rather looks as if you might be. Please don't tell me if you are because it will spoil all my pleasure! Give me a cigarette instead and let's enjoy ourselves!"

"You'll find the case in my coat behind," he said. "But, Juliet, though I wouldn't spoil your pleasure for the world, I must say one thing. If a woman engages herself to a man, I consider she is bound in honour to fulfil her engagement—unless he sets her free. If she is an honourable woman, she will never free herself without his consent. I hold that sort of engagement to be a debt of honour—as sacred as the marriage vow itself."

"Even though she realizes that she is going to make a mistake?" said Juliet, beginning to search the coat.

"Whatever the circumstances," he said. "An engagement can only be broken by mutual consent. Otherwise, the very word becomes a farce. I have no sympathy with jilts of either sex. I think they ought to be kicked out of decent society."

Juliet found the cigarettes and looked up with a smile. "I think you and Dene Strange ought to collaborate," she said. "You would soon put this naughty world to rights between you. Now open your mouth and shut your eyes, and if you're very good I'll light it for you!"

There was in her tone, despite its playfulness, a delicate finality that told him plainly that she had no intention of pursuing the subject further, and, curiously, the man's heart smote him for a moment. He felt as if in some fashion wholly inexplicable he had hurt her.

"You're not vexed with me, sweetheart?" he said.

She looked at him still smiling, but her look, her smile, were more of a veil than a revelation. "With you! What an idea!" she said, softly mocking.

"Ah, don't!" he said. "I'm not like that, Juliet!"

She held up the cigarette. "Quite ready? Ah, Dick! Don't—don't upset the boat!"

For the sculls floated loose again in the rowlocks. He had her by the wrists, the arms, the shoulders. He had her, suddenly and very closely, against his heart. He covered her face with his kisses, so that she gasped and gasped for breath, half-laughing, half-dismayed.

"Dick, how—how disgraceful of you! Dick, you mustn't! Someone—someone will see us!"

"Let them!" he said, grimly reckless. "You brought it on yourself. How dare you tell me I'm like a high priest? How dare you, Juliet?"

"I daren't," she assured him, her hand against his mouth, restraining him. "I never will again. You're much more like the great god Pan. There, now do be good! Please be good! I am sure someone is watching us. I can feel it in my bones. You're flinging my reputation to the little fishes. Please, Dick—darling,—please!"

He held the appealing hand and kissed it very tenderly. "I can't resist that," he said. "So now we're quits, are we? And no one any the worse. Juliet, you'll have to marry me soon."

She drew away from his arms, still panting a little. Her face was burning. "Now we'll go back," she said. "You're very unmanageable to-day. I shall not come out with you again for a long time."

"Yes—yes, you will!" he urged. "I shouldn't be so unmanageable if I weren't so—starved."

She laughed rather shakily. "You're absurd and extravagant. Please row back now, Dick! Mr. and Mrs. Fielding will be wondering where we are."

"Let 'em wonder!" said Dick.

Nevertheless, moved by something in her voice or face, he turned the boat and began to row back to the little landing-stage. Juliet rescued the cigarettes from the floor, and presently placed one between his lips and lighted it for him. But her eyes did not meet his during the process, and her hand was not wholly steady. She leaned back in the stern and smoked her own cigarette afterwards in almost unbroken silence.

"Don't you want a water-lily?" Dick said to her once as they drew near a patch.

She shook her head. "No, don't disturb them! They're happier where they are."

"Impossible!" he protested. "When they might be with you!"

She raised her eyes to his then, and looked at him very steadily. "No, that doesn't follow, Dick," she said.

"I think it does," he said. "Never mind if you don't agree! Tell me when you are coming to sing at one of my Saturday night concerts at High Shale!"

"Oh, I don't know, Dick." She looked momentarily embarrassed. "You know we are going away very soon, don't you?"

"Where to?" he said.

"I don't know. Either Wales or the North. Mrs. Fielding needs a change, and I—"

"You're coming back?" he said.

"I suppose so—some time. Why?" She looked at him questioningly.

He leaned forward, his black eyes unswervingly upon her. "Because—if you don't—I shall come after you," he said, with iron determination.

She laughed a little. "Pray don't look so grim! I probably shall come back all in good time. I will let you know if I don't, anyway."

"You promise?" he said.

"Of course I promise." She flicked her cigarette-ash into the water. "I won't disappear without letting you know first."

"Without letting me know where to find you," he said.

She glanced over his shoulder as if measuring the distance between the skiff and the landing-stage. "No, I don't promise that. It wouldn't be fair. But you will be able to trace me by Columbus. He will certainly accompany the cat's-meat cart wherever it goes. Oh, Dick! There's someone there—waiting for us!"

He also threw a look behind him. "Shall I put her about? I don't see anyone, but if you wish it—"

"No, no, I don't! Row straight in! There is someone there, and you'll have to apologize. I knew we were being watched."

Juliet sat upright with a flushed face.

Dick began to laugh. "Dear, dear! How tragic! Never mind, darling! I daresay it's no one more important than a keeper, and we will see if we can enlist his sympathy."

He pulled a few swift strokes and the skiff glided up to the little landing-stage. He shipped the sculls, and held to the woodwork with one hand.

"Will you get ashore, dear, and I'll tie up. There's no one here, you see."

"No one that matters," said a laughing voice above him, and suddenly a man in a white yachting-suit, slim, dark, with a monkey-like activity of movement, stepped out from the spreading shadow of a beech.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Dick, startled.

"Hullo, sir! Delighted to meet you. Madam, will you take my hand? Ah—et tu, Juliette! Delighted to meet you also."

He was bowing with one hand extended, the other on his heart. Juliet, still seated in the stern of the boat, had gone suddenly white to the lips.

She gasped a little, and in a moment forced a laugh that somehow sounded desperate. "Why, it is Charles Rex!" she said.

Dick's eyes came swiftly to her. "Who? Lord Saltash, isn't it? I thought so." His look flashed back to the man above him with something of a challenge. "You know this lady then?"

Two eyes—one black, one grey—looked down into his, answering the challenge with gay inconsequence. "Sir, I have that inestimable privilege. Juliette, will you not accept my hand?"

Juliet's hand came upwards a little uncertainly, then, as he grasped it, she stood up in the boat. "This is indeed a surprise," she said, and again involuntarily she gasped. "Rumour had it that you were a hundred miles away at least."

"Rumour!" laughed Lord Saltash. "How oft hath rumour played havoc with my name! Not an unpleasant surprise, I trust?"

He handed her ashore, laughing on a note of mockery. Charles Burchester, Lord Saltash, said to be of royal descent, possessed in no small degree the charm not untempered with wickedness of his reputed ancestor. His friends had dubbed him "the merry monarch" long since, but Juliet had found a more dignified appellation for him which those who knew him best had immediately adopted. He had become Charles Rex from the day she had first bestowed the title upon him. Somehow, in all his varying—sometimes amazing—moods, it suited him.

She stood with him on the little wooden landing-stage, her hand still in his, and the colour coming back into her face. "But of course not!" she said in answer to his light words, laughing still a trifle breathlessly. "If you will promise not to prosecute us for trespassing!"

"Mais, Juliette!" He bent over her hand. "You could not trespass if you tried!" he declared gallantly. "And the cavalier with you—may I not have the honour of an introduction?"

He knew how to jest with grace in an awkward moment. Dick realised that, as, having secured the boat, he presented himself for Juliet's low-spoken introduction.

"Mr. Green—Lord Saltash!"

Saltash extended a hand, his odd eyes full of quizzical amusement. "I've heard your name before, I think. And I believe I've seen you somewhere too. Ah, yes! It's coming back! You are the Orpheus who plays the flute to the wild beasts at High Shale. I've been wanting to meet you. I listened to you from my car one night, and—on my soul—I nearly wept!"

Dick smiled with a touch of cynicism. "Miss Moore was listening that night too," he said.

"Yes," Juliet said quickly. "I was there."

Saltash looked at her questioningly for a moment, then his look returned to Dick. "I am the friend who never tells," he observed. "So it was—Miss Moore—you were playing to, was it? Ah, Juliette!" He threw her a sudden smile. "I would I could play like that!"

She uttered her soft, low laugh. "No; you have quite enough accomplishments, mon ami. Now, if you don't mind, I think we had better walk back and find Mr. and Mrs. Fielding. Perhaps you know—or again perhaps you don't—they live at Shale Court. And I am with them—as Mrs. Fielding's companion. I—" she hesitated momentarily—"have left Lady Jo."

"Oh, I know that," said Saltash. "I've missed you badly. We all have. When are you coming back to us?"

"I don't know," said Juliet.

He gave her one of his humorous looks. "Next week—some time—never?"

She opened her sun-shade absently. "Probably," she said.

"Rather hard on Lady Jo, what?" he suggested. "Don't you miss her at all?"

"No," said Juliet. "I can't—honestly—say I do."

"Oh, let us be honest at all costs!" he said. "Do you know what Lady Jo is doing now?"

Juliet hesitated an instant, as if the subject were distasteful to her. "I can guess," she said somewhat distantly.

"I'll bet you can't," said Saltash, with a twist of the eyebrows that was oddly characteristic of him. "So I'll tell you. She's running in an obstacle race, and—to be quite, quite honest—I don't think she's going to win."

There was a moment's pause. Then the man on Juliet's other side spoke, briefly and with decision. "Miss Moore is no longer interested in Lady Joanna Farringmore's doings. Their friendship is at an end."

Juliet made a slight gesture of remonstrance, but she spoke no word in contradiction.

A gleam of malice danced in Saltash's eyes; it was like the turn of a rapier in a practised hand. "Most wise and proper!" he said. "Juliette, I always admired your discretion."

"You were always very kind, Charles Rex," she made grave reply.



CHAPTER III

THE PRICE

They went back up the winding glen, and as they went Lord Saltash talked, superbly at his ease, of the doings of the past few weeks, "since you and that naughty Lady Jo dropped out," as he expressed it to Juliet. He had just recently been to Paris, had motored across France, had just returned by sea from Bordeaux in his yacht, the Night Moth.

"Landed to-day—forgot this unspeakable flower-show—had to put in to get her cleaned up for Cowes—though it's quite possible I shan't go near Cowes when all's said and done. She's quite seaworthy, warranted not to kick in a gale. If anyone wanted her for a cruise—she's about the best thing going."

They reached the shrubbery to be nearly deafened by the band.

"Come through the gardens!" said Saltash, with a shudder. "We must get out of this somehow."

"But my people!" objected Juliet.

"Oh, Mr. Green will go and find them, won't you, Mr. Green?" Saltash turned a disarming smile upon him.

But Green looked straight back without a smile. "Miss Moore is under my escort," he observed. "If she agrees, I think we had better go together."

"And do you agree, Juliette?" enquired Saltash with interest.

Juliet met the mocking eyes with a smile that was certainly unintentional. "They may be in the Castle," she said. "I know they meant to go."

"Good!" he ejaculated. "Then come to the Castle! I will get you tea in my own secret den if such a thing is to be had—tea or a cocktail, ma Juliette!"

"Will you lead the way?" said Juliet, and for a second—only a second—her hand pressed Dick's arm with a quick, confidential pressure that was not without its appeal. "We always follow Charles Rex!" she said.

Saltash chuckled. Plainly the adventure amused him.

They entered the trim gardens, escaping thankfully from the wandering crowd of sight-seers. Saltash led the way with a certain unconscious arrogance of bearing. Somehow, his ugliness notwithstanding, he fitted his surroundings perfectly, save that the white yachting-suit ought to have been fashioned of satin, and a sword should have dangled at his side. The old stone turrets that towered above the blazing parterres gleamed in the hot sunlight—a mediaeval castle of romance.

"What a glorious old place!" said Juliet.

He turned to her. "You have never seen it before?"

"Never," she answered.

He made her a bow that was slightly foreign. There was French blood in his veins. "I give you welcome, maladi," he said, "I and my poor castle are all yours to command."

He made a gallant figure there on his stone terrace. The girl's eyes shone a little, but they turned almost immediately to the other man at her side.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Dick?" she said.

He met her look, and she was conscious of a chill. She had never seen him look so aloof, so cynical. "A temple of delight!" he said.

His manner offended her. She turned deliberately away from him. And again Lord Saltash chuckled, as though at some secret joke.

They entered by a narrow door at the head of a flight of steps. "This at least is private," declared Saltash, as he took a key from an inner pocket.

"Does no one ever come in here when you are away?" Juliet asked.

"Not by this entrance," he said. "There is another into the Castle itself which is known to a few. It leads into the music room whence Mr. Green will be able to start upon his search."

He threw a mischievous glance at Green who met it with a look so direct, and so unswerving that the odd eyes blinked and turned away.

But curiously a spirit of perversity seemed to have entered into Juliet. She also looked at Dick. "I wish you would go and find them," she said. "I know they will be wondering where we are."

His brows went up. She thought he was going to refuse. And then quite suddenly he yielded. "Certainly if you wish it!" he said. "And when they are found?"

"Oh, dump them in the great hall!" said Saltash. "To be left till called for!"

"Charles!" protested Juliet.

He grinned at her—a wicked, monkeyish grin, and threw open the door, disclosing a steep and winding stone stair.

"Will you be pleased to enter!" he said, in the tone of one issuing a royal command.

But she hung for a moment, looking back with a strange wistfulness at the man she was leaving. The imprisoned air came out into the hot sunshine like a cold vapour. She shivered a little.

"Dick!" she said.

He stopped at the foot of the outside steps looking up at her. His eyes were extremely bright, and something within her shrank from their straight regard. It conveyed possession, dominance; almost it conveyed a menace.

"When you have found them, come and—tell me!" she said.

He lifted his hat to her with punctilious courtesy, and turned away. "I will," he said.

"That's a masterful sort of person," observed Saltash, as they mounted the dimly-lit turret stair. "What does he do for a living?"

Juliet hesitated, conscious of a strong repugnance to discuss her lover with this man from her old world whom, strangely, at that moment, she felt that she knew so infinitely better. But she could not withhold an answer to so ordinary a question. Moreover Saltash could be imperious when he chose, and she knew instinctively that it was not wise to cross him.

"By profession," she said slowly at length, "he is—a village schoolmaster."

Saltash's laugh stung, though it was exactly what she had expected. But he qualified it the next moment with careless generosity.

"Quite a presentable cavalier, ma Juliette! And a fixed occupation is something of an advantage at times, n'est-ce-pas?—Je t'aime, tu l'aime! And how soon do you ride away? Or is that question premature?"

Juliet's face burned in the dimness, but she was in front of him and thankfully aware that he could not see it. "I am not answering any more questions, Charles," she said. "Now that you have got me into your ogre's castle, you must be—kind."

"I will be kindness itself," he assured her. "You know I am the soul of hospitality. All I have is yours."

The narrow stair ended at a small stone landing on which was a door. Juliet stepped aside as she reached it, and waited for her host. "It's rather like a prison," she said.

"You won't think so when you get through that door," he said. "By Jove! To think that I've actually got you—you of all people!—here in my stronghold! Do you realize that without my permission you can't possibly get out again?"

Juliet's laugh was absolutely spontaneous. She faced him in that narrow space with the poise and confidence of a queen. The light from a window that pierced the wall above shone down upon her. In that moment she was endowed with an extraordinary beauty that was more of being, of personality, than of feature.

"It is exactly this that I have played for, Charles Rex," she said. "You hold all the cards, mon ami. But—the game is mine."

"How so?" He was looking at her curiously, a dancing demon in his eyes.

She put out her hand to him, and as he took it, sank to the stone floor in a superb curtsy. "Because I claim your gracious protection, my lord the king. I ask your royal favour."

He lifted her hand to his lips as she rose. "You are—as ever—quite irresistible, ma Juliette," he smiled. "But—do you really contemplate marrying this fortunate young man? Because there are limits—even to my generosity. I am not sure that I can permit that."

Her eyes looked straight into his. "You can do—anything you choose to do, Charles Rex," she said; "except one thing."

He made a grimace at her. "I am king in my own castle anyway," he observed, watching her. "And you are at my mercy."

"It is your mercy that I am waiting for," she said, a faint smile at the corners of her lips.

"Ah!" he said, stood a moment longer, contemplating her, then turned abruptly and flung open the door against which he stood.

It led into a winding passage of such a totally different character from the stone staircase they had just mounted that Juliet stood gazing down it for some seconds before she obeyed his mute gesture to pass through. It was thickly carpeted, deadening all sound, and the walls were hung with some heavy material, in the colour of old oak. It was lighted by three long perpendicular slits of windows, let into a twelve-foot thickness of wall. Juliet had a glimpse of many pine trees as she passed them.

The passage ended in heavy curtains of the same dark-brown material. She stopped and looked at her companion.

"What is it?" he said, with a laugh. "Are you afraid of my inner sanctuary?"

He parted the curtains, disclosing a tall oak door. She saw no latch upon it, but his hand went up behind the curtain, and she heard the click of a spring. In a moment the tall door opened before her.

"Go in!" he said easily.

She entered a strange room, oak-panelled, shaped like a cone, lighted only by a glass dome in the roof. It was the most curious chamber she had ever seen. She trod on a tiger-skin as she entered, and noted that the floor was covered with them. There was no chair anywhere, only a long, deep couch, also draped with tiger-skins. Tiger faces glared at her from all directions. She heard the door click behind her and turning realized that it had disappeared in the oak panelling against which her host was standing.

He laughed at her quizzically, "I believe you are frightened."

She looked around her, seeing no exit anywhere. "It is just the sort of freak apartment I should expect you to delight in," she said.

"You wouldn't have come if you had known, would you?" he said, a faint note of jeering in his voice.

"Of course I should!" said Juliet.

"Of course!" he mocked. "I am such a peculiarly safe person, am I not? Every member of your charming sex trusts me instinctively."

She turned and faced him. "Don't be ridiculous, Charles! You see, I happen to know you."

He looked at her with something of the air of a monkey that contemplates snatching some forbidden thing. "Why did you run away?" he said.

She hesitated. "That's a hard question, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't mind me!" he said. "I don't flatter myself I was the cause."

Her dark brows were slightly drawn. "No, you were not," she said. "It was just—it was Lady Jo herself, Charlie. No one else."

"Ah!" His goblin smile flashed out at her. "Poor erring Lady Jo! Don't be too hard on her! She has her points."

She laid her hand quickly on his arm. "Don't try to defend her! She is quite despicable. I have done with her."

His hand was instantly on hers. He laughed into her eyes. "I'll wager you have a lingering fellow-feeling for her even yet."

"Not since she was reported to have run away with you," countered Juliet.

He laughed aloud. "Ah! She forfeited your sympathy there, did she? Mais, Juliette—" his voice sank suddenly upon a caressing note, "there are few women to whom I could not give happiness—for a time."

"I know," said Juliet, and drew her hand away. "That is why we all admire you so. But even you, most potent Charles, couldn't satisfy a woman who was wanting—some one else."

"You don't think I could make her forget?" he said.

She shook her head, smiling. "When the real thing comes along, all shams must go overboard. It's the rule of the game."

"And this is the real thing?" he questioned.

She made a little gesture as of one who accepts the inevitable. "Je le crois bien," she said softly.

Lord Saltash made a grimace. "And I am to give you up without a thought to this bounder?"

"You would," she replied gently, "if I were yours to give."

"If you were Lady Jo for instance?" he suggested.

"Exactly. If I were Lady Jo." She looked at him with the faint smile still at her lips. "It won't cost you much to be generous, Charles," she said.

"How do you know what it costs?" He frowned at her suddenly. "You'll accuse me of being benevolent next. But I'm not benevolent, and I'm not going to be. I might be to Lady Jo, but not to you, ma cherie,—never to you!" His grin burst through his frown. "Come! Sit down! I'll get you a drink."

She turned to the deep settee, and sank down among tigerskins with a sigh. He opened a cupboard in the panelling of the wall, and there followed the chink of glasses and the cheery buzz of a syphon. In a few moments he came to her with a tall glass in his hand containing a frothy drink. "Look here, Juliette!" he said. "Come to France with me in the Night Moth, and we'll find Lady Jo!"

She accepted the drink and lay back without looking at him. "You always were an eccentric," she said. "I don't want to find Lady Jo."

He sat on the head of the settee at her elbow. "It's quite a fair offer," he said, as if she had not spoken. "You will—eventually—return from Paris, and no one will ever know. In these days a woman of the world pleases herself and is answerable to none. Mais, Juliette!" He reached down and coaxingly held her hand. "Pourquoi pas?"

She lifted her eyes slowly to his face. "I have told you," she said.

"You're not in earnest!" he protested.

She kept her look steadily upon him. "Charles Rex, I am in earnest."

His fingers clasped hers more closely. "But I can't allow it. We can't spare you. And you—yourself, Juliette—you will never endure life in a backwater. You will pine for the old days, the old friends, the old lovers,—as they will pine for you."

"No, never!" said Juliet firmly.

He leaned down to her. "I say you will. This is—a midsummer madness. This will pass."

She started slightly at his words. The sparkling liquid splashed over. She lifted the glass to her lips, and drank. When she ceased, he took it softly from her, and put it to his own. Then he set down the empty glass and slipped his arm behind her.

"Juliette, I am going to save you," he said, "from yourself."

She drew away from him. "Charles, I forbid that!"

She was breathing quickly but her voice was quiet. There was indomitable resolution in her eyes.

He paused, looking at her closely. "You deny—to me—what you were permitting with so much freedom barely half-an-hour ago to the village schoolmaster?" he said.

Her face flamed. "I have always denied you—that!" she said.

He smiled. "Times alter, Juliette. You are no longer in a position to deny me."

She kept her eyes upon him. "You mean I have trusted you too far?" she said, a deep throb in her voice. "I might have known!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Life is a game of hazard, is it not? And you were always a daring player. But, Juliette, you cannot always win. This time the luck is against you."

She was silent. Very slowly her eyes left his. She drooped forward as she sat.

He leaned down to her again, his face oddly sympathetic. "After all,—you claimed my protection," he said.

She made a sudden movement. She turned sharply, almost blindly. She caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, Charles!" she said. "Charles Rex! Is there no mercy no honour—in you?"

There was a passion of supplication in her voice and action. As she held him he could have clasped her in his arms. But he did not. He sat motionless, looking at her, his expression still monkey-like, half-wicked, half-wistful.

"Well, you shouldn't tempt me, Juliette," he said. "It isn't fair to a miserable sinner. You were always the cherry just out of reach. Naturally, I'm inclined to snatch when I find I can."

Juliet was trembling, but she controlled her agitation.

"No, that isn't allowed," she said. "It isn't the game. And you never—seriously—wanted me either."

"But I'm never serious!" protested Saltash. "Neither are you. It's your one solid virtue."

"I am serious now," she said.

He looked at her quizzically. "Somehow it suits you. Well, listen, Juliette! I'll strike a bargain with you. When you are through with this, you will come with me for that cruise in the Night Moth. Come! Promise!"

"But I am not—quite mad, Rex!" she said.

He lifted his hands to hers and lightly held them. "It is no madder a project than the one you are at present engaged upon. What? You won't? You defy me to do my worst?"

"No, I don't defy you," she said.

He flashed a smile at her. "How wise! But listen! It's a bargain all the same. You put me on my honour. I put you on yours. Go your own way! Pursue this bubble you call love! And when it bursts and your heart is broken—you will come back to me to have it mended. That is the price I put upon my mercy. I ask no pledge. It shall be—a debt of honour. We count that higher than a pledge."

"Ah!" Juliet said, and suppressed a sudden tremor.

He stood up, gallantly raising her as he did so. "And now we will go and look for your friends," he said. "Is all well, ma cherie? You look pale."

She forced herself to smile. "You are a preposterous person, Charles Rex," she said. "Yes, let us go!"

She turned with him towards the panelling, but she did not see by what trick he opened again the door by which they had entered. She only saw, with a wild leap of the heart, Dick Green, upright, virile, standing against the dark hangings of the passage beyond.



CHAPTER IV

KISMET

He was breathing hard, as if he had been hurrying. He spoke to her exclusively, ignoring the man at her side.

"Will you come at once? Mrs. Fielding has been taken ill."

She started forward. "Dick! Where is she?"

"Downstairs." Briefly he answered her. "She collapsed in one of the tents. They brought her into the house. She is in the library."

Juliet hastened along the passage. Like Dick, she seemed no longer aware of Saltash's presence. He came behind, a speculative expression on his ugly face.

"Let me go first!" Dick said, as they reached the head of the winding stairs.

Juliet gave place to him without a word. They descended rapidly.

At the foot the door stood open to the terrace. They came again into the blazing sunshine, and here Juliet paused and looked back at Saltash.

He came to her side. "Don't look so alarmed! It's probably only the heat. Do you know the way to the library? Through that conservatory over there is the shortest cut. I suppose I may come with you? I may be of use."

"Of course!" said Juliet. "Thank you very much."

Dick barely glanced over his shoulder. He was already on his way.

They entered the Castle again by the conservatory that Saltash had indicated. It was a mass of flowers, but the public were evidently not admitted here, for it was empty. In the centre a nymph hung over a marble basin under a tinkling fountain. They passed quickly by to an open glass door that led into the house. Here Dick stopped and drew back, looking at Juliet.

"I will wait here," he said.

She nodded and went swiftly past him into the room.

It was a dark apartment, book-lined, chill of atmosphere, with heavy, ancient furniture, and a sense of solitude more suggestive of some monastic dwelling than any ordinary habitation. The floor was of polished oak that shone with a sombre lustre.

Juliet paused for a moment involuntarily upon entering. It was as if a sinister hand had been laid upon her, arresting her. The gloom blinded her after the hot radiance outside. Then a voice—Fielding's voice—spoke to her, and she went forward gropingly.

He met her, took her urgently by the shoulder. "Thank heaven, you're here at last!" he said.

Looking at him, she saw him as a man suddenly stricken with age. His face was grey. He led her to a settee by the high oak fireplace, and there—white, inanimate as a waxen figure—she found Vera Fielding.

Fear pierced her, sharp as the thrust of a knife. She freed herself from Fielding's grip, and knelt beside the silent form. For many awful seconds she watched and listened, not breathing.

"Is she gone?" asked Fielding in a hoarse whisper at last.

She looked up at him. "Get brandy—hot bottles—quick! Send Dick—he's in the conservatory. No, stay! Send Saltash! He's there too. He'll know where to find things. Tell Dick to come here! Have you sent for a doctor?"

"There's been no one to send," he answered frantically. "Some man helped to bring her in here, but she didn't faint till after we got in, and then I couldn't leave her. He went off to look after the crowd going round the Castle."

"All right," Juliet said. "Lord Saltash will see to that. Ask them to come in!"

She was unfastening the filmy gown with steady fingers. Whatever the dread at her heart there was no sign of it apparent in her bearing. She moved without haste or agitation.

At a touch on her shoulder she looked up and saw Dick at her side. "Ah, there you are!" she said. "We want a doctor. Will you see to it? No doubt there's a telephone somewhere. Ask Lord Saltash!"

"In the gun-room," said Saltash. "Door next to this on the left. Name of Rossiter. Shall I see to it?"

"No—no," she said. "You get some brandy, please—at once!"

They obeyed her orders with promptitude. Dick went straight from the room. Saltash turned to the fireplace, and pressed an electric bell three times very emphatically.

Then he came to Juliet's side. "You ought to lay her flat, Juliette. I know this sort of seizure. Heart of course! My mother died of it."

"Help me to lift her!" said Juliet.

They raised her between them with infinite care and flattened the cushions beneath her. Then Saltash, his queer face full of the most earnest concern began to chafe one of the nerveless hands.

Fielding tramped ceaselessly up and down the room, his head on his chest. Every time he drew near his wife he glanced at her and swung away again, as one without hope.

After a brief interval the door opened to admit a silent footed butler bearing a tray. Saltash turned upon him swiftly.

"Brandy, Billings? That's right. And look here! Find Mrs. Parsons! Tell her a lady has been taken ill in the library! She had better get a bed ready, and have some boiling water handy. Anything else?" He looked at Juliet.

She shook her head. "No, nothing till the doctor comes. I hope he won't be long."

Saltash poured out some brandy. Fielding came to a standstill behind Juliet, and stood looking on.

"We won't lift her again," whispered Juliet. "Try a spoon!"

He gave it to her, and she slipped it between the white lips. But there was no sign of life, no attempt to swallow.

"She is dead!" said Fielding heavily.

Saltash glanced at him. "I think not," he said gently. "I'm nearly certain I felt her pulse move just now."

The door opened again, and Dick entered. He went straight to the squire, and put his arm round his bent shoulders. "There'll be a doctor here in ten minutes," he said.

Fielding seemed barely to hear the words. "Do you think she'll ever speak again, Dick?" he said.

"Please God she will, sir," said Dick very steadily.

He kept his arm round Fielding, and in a few moments succeeded in drawing him aside. He put him into a chair by the table, poured out some brandy and water, and made him drink it. Looking up a moment later, he found Saltash's odd eyes curiously upon him. He returned the look with a conscious sense of antagonism, but Saltash almost immediately turned away.

There followed what seemed an interminable space of waiting, during which no change of any sort was apparent in the silent figure on the settee. The blatant bray of the band still sounded in the distance with a flaunting gaiety almost intolerable to those who waited. Saltash frowned as he heard it, but he did not stir from Juliet's side.

Then, after an eternity of suspense, the sombre-faced butler opened the door again and ushered in the doctor. Saltash went to meet him and brought him to the settee. Fielding got up and came forward.

Dick stood for a moment, then turned and went back to the conservatory, where a few seconds later Saltash joined him.

"I should like to burn that damn band alive!" he remarked as he did so.

Dick shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

Again Saltash's eyes dwelt upon him with curiosity. "I want to know you," he said suddenly. "I hope you don't object?"

"I am vastly honoured by your notice," said Dick.

Saltash nodded. "Well, don't be an ass about it! I am a most inoffensive person, I assure you. And it isn't my fault that I was on friendly terms with Mademoiselle Juliette before she forsook the world, etc., etc., and turned to you to fill the void. Do you flatter yourself you are going to marry her by any chance?"

A swift gleam shot up in Dick's eyes. He stiffened involuntarily. "That is a subject I cannot discuss—even with you," he said.

Saltash smiled good-humouredly. "Well, I expected that. But your courtship on the lake this afternoon was so delightfully ingenuous that I couldn't help wondering what your intentions were."

Dick's mouth became a simple hard line. He looked the other man up and down with lightning rapidity ere he replied with significance. "My intentions, my lord, are—honourable."

Saltash bowed with his hand on his heart and open mockery in his eyes. "La pauvre Juliette! And have you told her yet? No, look here! Don't knock me down! There's no sense in taking offence at a joke you can't understand. And it would be bad manners to have a row, with that poor soul in there at death's door. Moreover, if you really want to marry the princess Juliette, it'll pay you to be friends with me."

"I doubt if anything would induce me to be that," said Dick curtly.

"Oh, really? What have I done? No, don't tell me! It would take too long. I am aware I'm a by-word for wickedness in these parts, heaven alone knows why. But at least I've never injured you." Saltash's smile was suddenly disarming again.

"Never had much opportunity, have you?" said Dick.

"No, but I've got one now—quite a good one. I could put an end to this little idyll of yours for instance without the smallest difficulty—if I felt that way."

"I don't believe you!" flashed Dick.

"No? Well, wait till I do it then!" There was amused tolerance in Saltash's rejoinder. "You'll pipe another tune then, I fancy."

"Shall I?" Dick said. He paused a moment, his eyes, extremely bright, fixed unwaveringly upon the swarthy face in front of him. "If I do—you'll dance to it!" he said with grim assurance.

Saltash smothered a laugh. "Well done, I say! You've scored a point at last! I was waiting for that. You'll like me better now, most worthy cavalier. I daren't suggest a drink under the circumstances, but I'll owe you one." He extended his hand with a royal air. "Will you shake?"

Dick held back. "Will you play the game?" he said.

Saltash grinned. "My own game? Certainly! I always do."

Dick's hand came out to him. Somehow he was hard to refuse. "A straight game?" he said.

Saltash's brows expressed amused surprise. "I always play straight—till I begin to lose,—chevalier," he said.

"And then—you cheat?" questioned Dick.

"Like the devil," laughed Saltash. "We all do that. Don't you?"

"No," Dick said briefly.

"You don't? You always put all your cards on the table? Come now! Do you?"

Dick hesitated, and Saltash's grin became more pronounced. "All right! You needn't answer," he said lightly. "Do you know I thought you weren't quite as simple as you appeared at first sight. Just as well perhaps. Juliette's cavalier mustn't be too rustic." He stopped to look at Dick appraisingly. "Yes, I'm glad on the whole that your intentions are honourable," he ended with a smile. "I rather doubt if you pull 'em off. But you may—you may."

He turned sharply with the words as if a hand had touched him and faced round upon Juliet as she came out on to the step.

Her face had an exhausted look, but she smiled faintly at the two men as she joined them.

"She is still living," she said. "The doctor gives just a shade of hope. But—" She looked at Saltash—"he absolutely forbids her being moved—at all. I hope it won't be a terrible inconvenience to you."

"It will be a privilege to serve you—or your friends—in any way," said Saltash.

"Thank you," she said. "I am sure Mr. Fielding will be very grateful to you. The doctor is going to send in a nurse. Of course I shall not leave her. She has come to depend upon me a good deal. And we thought of telephoning to her maid to bring everything necessary from Shale Court."

"Of course!" said Saltash kindly. "Look here, my dear! Don't for heaven's sake feel you've got to ask my permission for everything you do! Treat the place and everyone in it as your own!"

"Thank you," she said again. "Then, Charles, if you're sure you don't mind, I'll send for my dog as well."

"What! Christopher Columbus? You've got him with you, have you?" Saltash's smile lighted his dark face. "Lucky animal! Have him over by all means! I shall be delighted to see him."

"You are very kind," she said, and turned with a hint of embarrassment to Dick. "Mr. Fielding says that you will want to be getting back and there is no need to wait. Will you take the little car back to the Court?"

"Certainly," Dick said. "Would you care to give me a list of the things you want the maid to bring?"

"How kind of you!" she said, and hesitated a moment, looking at him. "But I think I needn't trouble you. Cox is very sensible. I can make her understand on the telephone."

He looked back at her, standing very straight. "In that case—I will go," he said. "Good-bye!"

She held out her hand to him. "I—shall see you again," she said, and there was almost a touch of pleading in her voice.

His fingers closed and held. "Yes," he said, and smiled into her eyes with the words—a smile in which determination and tenderness strangely mingled. "You will certainly see me again."

And with that he was gone, striding between the massed flowers without looking back.

"Exit Romeo!" murmured Saltash. "Enter—Kismet!"

But Juliet had already turned away.



CHAPTER V

THE DRIVING FORCE

That Saturday night concert at High Shale entailed a greater effort on Dick's part than any that had preceded it. He forced himself to make it a success, but when it was over he was conscious of an overwhelming weariness that weighed him down like a physical burden.

He said good-night to the men, and prepared to depart with a feeling that he was nearing the end of his endurance. It was not soothing to nerves already on edge to be waylaid by Ashcott and made the unwilling recipient of gloomy forebodings.

"We shan't hold 'em much longer," the manager said. "They're getting badly out of hand. There's talk of sending a deputation to Lord Wilchester or—failing him—Ivor Yardley, the K.C. chap who is in with him in this show."

"Yardley!" Dick uttered the name sharply.

"Yes, ever met him? He took over a directorship when he got engaged to Lord Wilchester's sister—Lady Joanna Farringmore. They're rather pinning their hopes on him, it seems. Do you know him at all?"

"I've met him—once," Dick said. "Went to him for advice—on a matter of business."

"Any good?" asked Ashcott.

"Oh yes, shrewd enough. Hardest-headed man at the Bar, I believe. I didn't know he was a director of this show. They won't get much out of him."

"I fancy they're going to ask you to draw up a petition," said Ashcott.

"Me!" Dick turned on him in a sudden blaze of anger. "I'll see 'em damned first!" he said.

Ashcott shrugged his shoulders. "It's your affair. You're the only man who has any influence with 'em. I'm sick of trying to keep the peace."

Dick checked his indignation. "Poor devils! They certainly have some cause for grievance, but I'm not going to draw up their ultimatum for them. I've no objection to speaking to Yardley or any other man on their behalf, but I'm hanged if I'll be regarded as their representative. They'll make a strike-leader of me next."

"Well, they're simmering," Ashcott said, as he prepared to depart. "They'll boil over before long. If they don't find a responsible representative they'll probably run amuck and get up to mischief."

"Oh, man, stop croaking!" Dick said with weary irritation and went away down the hill.

He took the cliff-path though the night was dark with storm-clouds. Somehow, instinctively, his feet led him thither. There were no nightingales singing now, and the gorse had long since faded in the fierce heat of summer. The sea lay leaden far below him, barely visible in the dimness. And there was no star in the sky.

Heavily he tramped over the ground where Juliet had lingered on that night of magic in the spring, and as he went, he told himself that he had lost her. Whatever the outcome of to-day's happenings, she would never be the same to him again. She had passed out of his reach. Her own world had claimed her again and there could be no return. He recalled the regret in her eyes at parting. Surely—most surely—she had known that that was the end. For her the midsummer madness was over, burnt away like the glory of the gorse-bushes about him. With a conviction that was beyond all reason he knew that they had come to a parting of the ways.

And there was no bond between them, no chain but that which his love had forged. She had pleaded to retain her freedom, and now with bitter intuition he knew wherefore. She had always realized that to which he in his madness had been persistently blind. She had known that there were obstacles insurmountable between them and the happy consummation of their love. She had faced the fact that the glory would depart.

Again he felt the clinging of her arms as he had felt it only that afternoon. Again against his lips there rose her quivering whisper, "Just for to-day, Dick! Just for to-day!" Yes, she had known even then. Even then for her the glory had begun to fade.

He clenched his hands in sudden fierce rebellion. It was unbearable. He would not endure it. This stroke of destiny—he would fight it with all the strength of his manhood. He would overthrow this nameless barrier that had arisen between them. He would sacrifice all—all he had—to reach her. Somehow—whatever the struggle might cost—he would clasp her again, would hold her against all the world.

And then—like a poisoned arrow out of the darkness—another thought pierced him. What if she were indeed of those who loved for a space and passed smiling on? What if the fatal taint of the world from which she had come to him had touched her also, withering the heart in her, making true love a thing impossible? What if she had indeed been fashioned in the same mould as the worthless woman whom she sought to defend?

But that was unthinkable, intolerable. He flung the evil suggestion from him, but it left a burning wound behind. There was no escape from the fact that she was on terms of intimacy with the man with whom that woman's name had been shamefully associated. And—remembering the discomfiture she had betrayed at their meeting—he told himself bitterly that she would have given much to have concealed that intimacy had it been possible.

But here his loyalty cried out that he was wronging her. Juliet—his Juliet of the steadfast eyes and low, sincere voice—was surely incapable of double dealing! Whatever her life in the past had been, however frivolous, however artificial, it had been given to him—perhaps to him alone—to know her as she was. A great wave of self-reproach went over him. How had he dared to doubt her?

The sea moaned with a dreary sound along the shore. A few heavy drops of rain fell around him. Mechanically he quickened his pace. He came at length down the steep cliff-path to the gate that led to the village. And here to his surprise a shuffling footstep told him of the presence of another human being out in the desolate darkness. Dimly he discerned a bulky shape leaning against the rail.

He came up to it. "Robin!" he said sharply.

A low voice answered him in startled accents. "Oh, Dicky! I thought you were never coming!"

"What are you doing here?" Dick said.

He took the boy by the shoulder with the words and Robin cowered away.

"Don't be cross! Dicky, please don't be cross! I only came to look for you," he said with nervous incoherence. "I didn't mean to be out late. I couldn't help it. Don't be cross!"

But Dick was implacable. "You know you've no business out at this hour," he said. "I warned you last time—when you went to The Three Tuns—" He paused abruptly. "Have you been to The Three Tuns to-night?"

"No!" said Robin eagerly.

Dick's hand pressed upon him. "Is that the truth?"

Robin became incoherent again. "I only came to meet you. I didn't think you'd be so late. And it was so hot to-night. And my head ached." He broke off. "Dicky, you're hurting me!"

"You have told me a lie," Dick said.

Robin shrank at his tone. "How did you know?" he whispered awestruck.

Dick did not answer. He shifted his hold from Robin's shoulder to his arm and turned him about. Robin went with him, shuffling his feet and trembling.

Dick led him in grim silence down the path to the village-road, past the Ricketts' cottage, now in darkness, up the hill beyond that led to the school.

Robin went with him submissively enough, but he stumbled several times on the way. As they neared the end of the journey he began to talk again anxiously, propitiatingly.

"I didn't mean to go, Dicky, but I was so hot and thirsty. And I met Jack and I went in with him. There were a lot of fellows there and Jack treated me, but I didn't have very much. My head ached so, and I sat down in a corner and went to sleep till it was closing time. Then old Swag made me get out, so I came to wait for you. I didn't hit him or anything, Dicky. I was quite quiet all the while. So you won't be cross, will you,—not like last time?"

"I am going to punish you if that's what you mean," Dick said, as he opened the garden-gate.

Robin shrank again, shivering like a frightened dog. "But, Dicky, I only—I only—"

"Broke the rule and lied about it," his brother said uncompromisingly. "You know the punishment for that."

Robin attempted no further appeal. He went silently into the house and blundered up to his room. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to pay the penalty—of which Dick's wrath was infinitely the hardest part to bear.

He crouched down on the floor by the bed to wait. The light from the passage shone in through the half-open door and the great lamp at the lodge-gates of the Court opposite, which was kept burning all night, glared in at the unblinded window, but there was no light in the room. There was something almost malignant to Robin's mind about the searching brilliance of this lamp. He hid his eyes from it, huddling his face in the bed-clothes, listening intently the while for Dick's coming but hearing only the dull thumping of his own heart.

There was no one in the house except the two brothers. A woman came in every day from the village to do the work of the establishment. Now that Jack had found quarters elsewhere there was not a great deal to be done since Robin was accustomed also to making himself useful in various ways. It occurred to him suddenly as he crouched there waiting that Dick had been too hurried to eat much supper before his departure for High Shale that evening. The thought had been in his brain before, but subsequent events had dislodged it. Now, with every nerve alert and pricking with suspense, it returned to him very forcibly. Dicky was hungry perhaps—or consumed with thirst, as he himself had been. And he would certainly go empty to bed unless he, Robin, plucked up courage to go down and wait upon him.

It needed considerable courage, for his instinct was always to hide when he had incurred Dick's anger. Judicial though it invariably was, it was the most terrible thing the world held for him. It shook him to the depths, and to go down and confront it again with the penalty still unpaid was for a long time more than he could calmly contemplate. But as the minutes crept on and still Dick did not come, it was gradually borne in upon him that this, and this alone, was the thing that must be done. It was his job, forced upon him by an inexorable fate. Dick would probably be much more angry with him for doing it, but somehow in a vague, unreasoning fashion he realized that it had got to be done.

Even then it took him a long time to screw himself up to the required pitch of nervous energy required. He ached for the sound of Dick's step on the stairs, but it did not come. And so at last he knew there was no help for it. Whatever the cost, he must fulfil the task that had been laid upon him.

With intense reluctance he uncovered his face, flinching from the stark glare of the lamp across the road, and dragged himself to his feet. It was difficult to move without noise, but he made elaborate efforts to do so. He reached the head of the stairs and hung there listening.

Had he heard a movement below he would have stumbled headlong back to cover, but no sound of any sort reached him. The compelling force urged him afresh. He gripped the stair-rail and crept downward like a stealthy baboon.

The stairs creaked alarmingly. More than once he paused, prepared for precipitate retreat, but still he heard no sound, and gradually a certain desperate hope came to him. Perhaps Dicky was asleep! Perhaps the power that drove him would be satisfied if he collected some things on a tray and left them in the little hall for Dicky to find when he finally came up! If this could be done—and he could get back safe to the sheltering darkness before he found out! He would not mind the subsequent caning, if only he need not meet Dicky face to face again beforehand. Dicky's eyes when they looked at him sternly were anguish to his soul. And they certainly would not hold any kindness for him until the punishment was over. So argued poor Robin's anxious brain as he reached the foot of the stairs and stood a moment under the lamp dimly burning there, summoning strength to creep past the open door of the dining-room.

A candle was flickering on the table, so he was sure Dick must be there. Would he see him pass? Would he call him in? Robin's heart raced with terror at the thought. But no! The urging force drove him in sickening apprehension past the door, and still there was no sound.

He was at the kitchen-door at the end of the passage, his fingers fumbling at the latch when suddenly he remembered that he had no candle. There was no candle to be had! The only one available downstairs was the one Dick had taken into the dining-room. He could not go upstairs again to get another. He had no matches wherewith to explore the kitchen. He stood struck motionless by this fresh problem.

But Dicky was doubtless asleep or he must have heard those creaking stairs! Then there was still a chance. He might creep into the room and take the candle without waking him. He was gaining confidence by the prolonged silence. Dicky must certainly be fast asleep.

With considerably greater steadiness than he had yet achieved he returned to the open door and peeped stealthily in.

Yes, Dick was there. He had flung himself down at the table on which he had set the candle, and he was lying across it with his head on his arms. Asleep of course! That could be the only explanation of such an attitude. Yet Robin in the act of advancing, stopped in sudden doubt with a scared backward movement, his eyes upon one of Dick's hands that was clenched convulsively and quivering as if he were in pain. It certainly did not look like the hand of a man asleep.

The next moment Robin's ungainly form had knocked against the door-handle and Dick was sitting upright looking at him. His face was grey, he looked unutterably tired, his mouth had the stark grimness of the man who endures, asking nothing of Fate.

"Hullo, boy!" he said. "Why aren't you in bed?" Then seeing Robin's unmistakably hang-dog air, "Oh, I forgot! Go on upstairs! I'm coming."

Robin turned about like a kicked dog. But the driving force stopped him on the threshold. He stood a second or two, then turned again with a species of sullen courage.

"May I have the candle?" he said, not looking at Dick.

"What for?" said Dick. "Haven't you got one upstairs?"

Robin stood a moment or two debating with himself, then made a second movement to go. "All right. I'll fetch it."

"Wait a minute!" Dick's voice compelled. "What do you want a candle down here for?"

Robin backed against the door-post with a kind of heavy defiance. "Want to get something—out of the kitchen," he muttered.

"What do you want to get?" said Dick.

Robin was silent, stubbornly, insistently silent, the fingers of one hand working with agitated activity.

"Robin!"

It was the voice of authority. He had to respond to it. He made a lumbering gesture towards the speaker, but his eyes remained obstinately lowered under the shag of hair that hung over his forehead.

Dick sat for a few seconds looking at him, then with a sudden sigh that caught him unawares he got up.

"What did you come down for? Tell me!" he said.

His tone was absolutely quiet, but something in his utterance or the sigh that preceded it—or possibly some swiftly-piercing light of intuition—seemed to send a galvanizing current through Robin. With clumsy impulsiveness he came to Dick and stood before him.

"I was going—to get you—something to eat," he said, speaking with tremendous effort. "You must be—pretty near starving—and I forgot." He paused to fling a nervous look upwards. "I thought you were asleep. I didn't know—or I wouldn't have done it. I—didn't mean to get in the way." His voice broke oddly. He began to tremble. "I'll go now," he said.

But Dick's hand came out, detaining him. "You came down to get me food?" he said.

"Yes," muttered Robin, with his head down. "Thought I'd—put it in the hall—so you'd find it—before you came up."

Dick stood silent for a space, looking at him. His eyes were very gentle and the grimness had gone from his mouth, but Robin could not see that. He stood humped and quivering, expectant of rebuke.

But he recognized the change when Dick spoke. "Thought you'd provide me with the necessary strength to hammer you, eh?" he said, and suddenly his arm went round the misshapen shoulders; he gave Robin a close squeeze. "Thanks, old chap," he said.

Robin looked up then. The adoring devotion of a dumb animal was in his eyes. He said nothing, being for the moment beyond words.

Dick let him go. A clock on the mantelpiece was striking twelve. "You get to bed, boy!" he said. "I don't want anything to eat, thanks all the same." He paused a moment, then held out his hand. "Good-night!"

It was tacit forgiveness for his offence, and as such Robin recognized it. Yet as he felt the kindly grasp his eyes filled with tears.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Dicky," he stammered.

"I'm sorry too," Dick said. "But that won't undo it. For heaven's sake, Robin, never lie to me again! There! Go to bed! I'm going myself as soon as I've had a smoke. Good-night!"

It was a definite dismissal, and Robin turned away and went stumblingly from the room.

His brother looked after him with a queer smile in his eyes. It was Juliet who had taught Robin to say he was sorry. He threw himself into an easy-chair and lighted a pipe. Perhaps after all in his weariness he had exaggerated the whole matter. Perhaps—after all—she might yet find that she loved him enough to cast her own world aside. Recalling her last words to him, he told himself that he had been too quick to despair. For she loved him—she loved him! Not all the fashionable cynics her world contained could alter that fact.

A swift wave of exultation went through him, combating his despair. However heavy the odds,—however formidable the obstacles—he told himself he would win—he would win!

Going upstairs a little later, he was surprised to hear a low sound coming from Robin's room. He had thought the boy would have been in bed and asleep some time since. He stopped at the door to listen.

The next moment he opened it and quietly entered, for Robin was sobbing as if his heart would break.

There was no light in the room save that which shone from the park-gates opposite and the candle he himself carried. Robin was sunk in a heap against the bed still fully dressed. He gave a great start at his brother's coming, shrinking together in a fashion that seemed to make him smaller. His sobbing ceased on the instant. He became absolutely still, his claw-like hands rigidly gripped on the bedclothes, his face wholly hidden. He did not even breathe during the few tense seconds that Dick stood looking down at him. He might have been a creature carved in granite. Then Dick set down his candle, went to him, sat on the low bed, and pulled the shaggy head on to his knee.

"What's the matter, old chap?" he said.

All the tension went out of Robin at his touch. He clung to him in voiceless distress.

Dick's heart smote him. Why had he left the boy so long? He laid a very gentle hand upon him.

"Come, old chap!" he said. "Get a hold on yourself! What's it all about?"

Robin's shoulders heaved convulsively; his hold tightened. He murmured some inarticulate words.

Dick bent over him. "What, boy? What? I can't hear. You haven't been up to any mischief, have you? Robin, have you?" A sudden misgiving assailed him. "You haven't hurt anybody? Not Jack, for instance?"

"No," Robin said. But he added a moment later with a concentrated passion that sounded inexpressibly vindictive, "I hate him! I do hate him! I wish he was dead!"

"Why?" Dick said. "What has he been doing?"

But Robin burrowed lower and made no answer.

Dick sat for a space in silence, waiting for him to recover himself. He knew very well that he had good reason for his rooted dislike for Jack. It was useless to attempt any argument on that point. But when Robin had grown calmer, he returned to the charge very quietly but with determination.

"What has Jack been doing or saying? Tell me! I've got to know."

Robin stirred uneasily. "Don't want to tell you, Dicky," he said.

Dick's hand pressed a little upon him. "You must tell me," he said. "When did you meet him?"

Robin hesitated in obvious reluctance. "It was after supper," he said. "My head ached, and I went outside, and he came down the drive. And he—and he laughed about—about you coming home alone from Burchester, and said—said that your game was up anyhow. And I didn't know what he meant, Dicky—" Robin's arms suddenly clung closer—"but I got angry, because I hate him to talk about you. And I—I went for him, Dicky." His voice dropped on a shamed note, and he became silent.

"Well?" Dick said gravely. "What happened then?"

Very unwillingly Robin responded to his insistence. "He got hold of me—so that I couldn't hurt him—and then he said—he said—" A great sob rose in his throat choking his utterance.

"What did he say?"

There was a certain austerity in Dick's question. Robin shivered as it reached him.

With difficulty he struggled on. "Said that only—a fool—like me—could help knowing that—you hadn't—a chance—with any woman—so long as—so long as—" He choked again and sank into quivering silence.

Dick's hand found the rough head and patted it very tenderly. "But you're not fool enough to take what Jack says seriously, are you?" he said.

Robin stifled a sob. "He said that—afterwards," he whispered. "And he took me along to The Three Tuns—to make me forget it."

"You actually drank with him after that!" Dick said.

"I didn't know what I was doing, Dicky," he make apologetic answer. "It—knocked the wind out of me. You see, I—I'd never thought of that before."

He began to whimper again. Dick swallowed down something that tried to escape him.

"A bit of an ass, aren't you, Robin?" he said instead. "You know as well as I do that there isn't a word of truth in it. Anyhow—the woman I love—isn't—that sort of woman."

Robin shifted his position uneasily. There was that in the words that vaguely stirred him. Dick had never spoken in that strain before. Slowly, with a certain caution, he lifted his tear-stained face and peered up at his brother in the fitful candle-light.

"You do—want to marry Miss Moore then, Dicky?" he asked diffidently.

Dick looked straight back at him; his eyes shone with a sombre gleam that came and went. For several seconds he sat silent, then very steadily he spoke.

"Yes, I want her all right, Robin, but there are some pretty big obstacles in the way. I may get over them—and I may not. Time will prove."

His lips closed upon the words, and became again a single hard line. His look went beyond Robin and grew fixed. The boy watched him dumbly with awed curiosity.

Suddenly Dick moved, gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him upwards. "There! Go to bed!" he said. "And don't take any notice of what Jack says for the future! Don't fight him either! Understand? Leave him alone!"

Robin blundered up obediently. Again there looked forth from his eyes the dog-like worship which he kept for Dick alone. "I'll do—whatever you say, Dicky," he said earnestly. "I—I'd die for you—I would!" He spoke with immense effort, and all his heart was in the words.

Dick smiled at him quizzically. "Instead of which I only want you to show a little ordinary common or garden sense," he said. "Think you can do that for me?"

"I'll try, Dicky," he said humbly.

"Yes, all right. You try!" Dick said, and got up, more moved than he cared to show. He turned to go, but paused to light Robin's candle from his own. "And don't forget I'm—rather fond of you, my boy!" he said, with a brief smile over his shoulder as he went away.

No, Robin was not likely to forget that, seeing that Dick's love for him was his safeguard from all evil, and his love for Dick was the mainspring of his life. But—though his development was stunted and imperfect—there were certain facts of existence which he was beginning slowly but surely to grasp. And one of these—before but dimly suspected—he had realized fully to-night, a fact beyond all questioning learnt from Dick's own lips.

Dick's words: "The woman I love," had sunk deep—deep into his soul. And he knew with that intuition which cannot err that his love for Juliet was the greatest thing life held for him—or ever could hold again.

And the driving force gripped Robin's soul afresh as he lay wide-eyed to the smothering gloom of the night. Whatever happened—whoever suffered—Dicky must have his heart's desire.



CHAPTER VI

THE SISTER OF MERCY

For five days after that burning afternoon of the flower-show Juliet scarcely left Vera Fielding's side. During those five days Vera lay at the point of death, and though her husband was constantly with her it was to Juliet that she clung through all the terrible phases of weakness, breathlessness, and pain that she passed. Through the dark nights—though a trained nurse was in attendance—it was Juliet's hand that held her up, Juliet's low calm voice that reassured her in the Valley of the Shadow through which she wandered. Often too spent for speech, her eyes would rest with a piteous, child-like pleading upon Juliet's quiet face, and—for Juliet at least—there was no resisting their entreaty. She laid all else aside and devoted herself body and soul to the tender care of the sick woman.

Edward Fielding regarded her with reverence and a deep affection that grew with every day that passed. She was always so gentle, so capable, so undismayed. He knew that her whole strength was bent to the task of saving Vera's life, and even when he most despaired he found himself leaning upon her, gathering courage from the resolute confidence with which she shouldered her burden.

"She never thinks of herself at all," he said once to Saltash between whom and himself a friendship wholly unavoidable on his part and also curiously pleasant had sprung up. "I suppose in her position of companion she has been more or less trained for this sort of thing. But her devotion is amazing. She is absolutely indispensable to my wife."

"Juliette seems to have found her vocation," observed Saltash with a lazy chuckle. "But no, I should not say that she was specially trained for this sort of thing, though certainly it seems to suit her passing well. All the same, you won't let her carry it too far, will you? Now that Mrs. Fielding is beginning to rally a little it might be a good opportunity to make her take a rest."

"Yes, you're right. She must rest," Fielding agreed. "She is so marvellous that one is apt to forget she must be nearly worn out."

It was the fifth day and Vera had certainly rallied. She lay in the sombre old library, that had been turned into the most luxurious bedroom that Saltash's and Juliet's ingenuity could devise, listening to the tinkle of the water in the conservatory and watching Juliet who sat in a low chair by her side with a book in her lap ready to read her to sleep.

There was a couch in the conservatory itself on which sometimes on rare occasions Juliet would snatch a brief rest, leaving the nurse to watch. Columbus regarded this couch as his own particular property, but he always gave his beloved mistress an ardent welcome and squeezed himself into as small a compass as possible at the foot for her benefit. Otherwise, he occupied the middle with an arrogance of possession which none disputed. The door into the garden was always open, and Columbus was extremely happy, being of supremely independent habits and quite capable of trotting round to the kitchen premises of the castle for his daily portion without disturbing anyone en route. How he discovered the kitchen Juliet never knew. Doubtless his exploring faculty stood him in good stead. But his appearance there was absolutely regular and orderly, and he always returned to the conservatory when he had been fed with the bustling self-importance of one whose time was of value. He never entered the sick-room except on invitation, and he never raised his voice above a whisper when in the conservatory. It was quite evident that he fully grasped the situation and accommodated himself thereto. All he asked of life was to be near his beloved one, and the snuffle of his greeting whenever she joined him was ample testimony to the joy of his simple soul. Just to see her, just to hear her voice, just sometimes to kiss and be kissed, what more could any dog desire?

Certainly an occasional scamper after rabbits in the park made a salutary change, but Columbus was prudent and he never suffered himself to be drawn very far in pursuit. A sense of duty or expediency always brought him back before long to the couch in the conservatory to lie and watch, brighteyed, for the only person who counted in his world.

He was watching for her now, but without much hope of her coming. She seldom left Vera's bedside in the afternoon for it was then, in the heat of the day, that she usually suffered most. But to-day she had been better. Today for the first time she was able to turn her head and smile and even to murmur a few sentences without distress. Her eyes dwelt upon Juliet's quiet face with a wistful affection. She had come to lean upon her strength with a child's dependence.

"Quite comfortable?" Juliet asked her gently.

"Quite," Vera made whispered reply. "But you—you look so tired."

Juliet smiled at her. "I dare say I shall fall asleep if you do," she said.

"You ought to have a long rest," said Vera, and then her heavy eyes brightened and went beyond her as her husband's tall figure came softly in from the conservatory.